Spiraling Serenity
by nisci
Summary: After winning the war against Grindelwald, Harry becomes Head Healer at St. Mungo's. However, a new Dark Lord is rising. Between confronting his past, curing an artificial magical disease, and trying to figure out just who Tom Marvolo Riddle is, what role will Harry play as another war rapidly approaches? Light!Healer!Harry. No slash. AU.
1. The Disease

**Spiraling Serenity**** Chapter 1 (Rewritten 7/19/14)**

**A/N: This story is set in an alternate reality with a messed-up timeline.**

**1922- HP, HG, RW, DM, etc. are born.**  
**1923- TMR is born.**  
**1933- HP's first year at Hogwarts.**  
**1935- TMR's first year at Hogwarts.**  
**1937- HP is apprenticed to Albus Dumbledore.**  
**1939- HP and his year mates graduate Hogwarts. Grindelwald's War officially begins. HP and his friends join the war. HP's status as the Leader of the Light forces is officially announced.**  
**1941- TMR graduates Hogwarts and goes off to wander the world.**  
**1945- Grindelwald is defeated. The war ends. HP retreats from the world to train as a Healer. TMR returns to Britain.**  
**1948- HP becomes Head Healer at St. Mungo's.  
1949- TMR becomes ****Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic.  
****1950- HP is 28. The Death Eater's raids begin. The story begins here.**

**The main reason for the shifting of the birth dates is so that HP, HG, and RW are able to legitimately participate in Grindelwald's war. It's a bit too close to the beginning of the war, as all three graduate right before it begins, but I didn't want to shift their birth dates too far back.**

* * *

Reality is a transient illusion, changing and shifting with the closing and opening of an eyelid.

Once upon a time it hadn't been so, back when the nucleus of his life had been alive, tethering him to normality and everyday routines, smiling at him with her fiery hair whipping about. But then she was burned away into ashes, dissolved to dust, leaving him abandoned in a foggy state of being, like a butterfly with its wings torn off, nothing more than a moth who can't even find a flame to be drawn to.

There is a sort of despondency in his everyday routines now, hanging over him like an eternally clouded sky. Sometimes, the sun peeks through, when he's laughing with his friends, or immersed in his newest magical creation. But then the clouds come down to smother him in an misty fog, blocking out the light, and he's lost once again, not knowing what to do.

Once upon a time, five years ago, there had been a period of action and adrenaline, in which he was alive and in his destined element, never allowed to sit still. But now it is over, and he was left with the empty taste of victory and ashes, and a country that just won't leave him alone.

Now, after two more years of official training as a Healer, and supplanting the previous Head Healer, he sits alone in a with soft light streaming in through the windows and brightening the light-blue walls. It is a pale office set on the Fifth Floor of St. Mungo's, with a single white desk set next to the window and positioned so that he has a clear view of the only door, and placed as a rectangular island towering above the massacred paperwork littered along the floor.

"One's room is the physical representation of the mind," Hermione had told him once. Her own office, which, like him, she practically lived in, had a homely colored scheme with multiple filing cabinets set in a orderly row and various tools lined neatly across her desk.

Harry wonders what that says about his mind, with his pallid-colored walls and various papers scattered and piled across the floor in meaningless clumps and gatherings. Sometimes, he amuses himself by arranging them in meaningless patterns floating in mid-air, an asymmetric flower or a white-picketed house, tax documents set next to patent approvals on top of Ministry forms.

It was Beatrice Lovelace, both his personal secretary and the Head Secretary who entered his room with a soft knock every now and then, giving him a pitying look as she saw the faint outline of a woman's face in the floating sheets, and gathered the papers with a spell in preparation to enforce order upon them.

He lifts a finger in the air, and traces a glittering head, thorax, abdomen, and a pair of wings frozen in mid-motion. The glimmering butterfly lifts away from his hand and flutters off, once, twice, a few more seconds, before dissipating into glowing particles that fall into the floor and shatter.

Harry blinks. Once. Twice. There is an increase of focus in his eyes, as if his previously absent consciousness is returning, and he lowered his face back down to the ground.

Harry lifted his hands up to his forehead and cursed, clutching his temples with a desperate grip.

"Bloody hell," he spat out. It was happening more and more now, ever since the war had ended.

He'd fall into odd trances, and his thoughts would go all barmy and floaty. When he was in that state, everything seemed right, and magic came to him effortlessly; it was sort of like being in a dream, in which logic went out the window and impossibility itself was impossible and even the strangest things seemed normal. During one of his stupors, he'd even managed a trans-continental Apparation and then, because he was in the mood to _fly_, jumped off of the tip of the Empire State Building. He snapped out of it halfway down, and barely saved himself from dying. It wasn't until he exited the trance that he realized anything was wrong, and was able to reflect on how odd his thoughts were during it.

Hermione had hypothesized that it was his built-up Light magic, stored up from lack of use due to the end of the war, that triggered his trances. Ron just plain out told him he'd finally lost it and was going crazy.

Personally, he had no idea what the hell was going on at all. His dream-like trances could be rather bothersome, though, as it would sometimes leave in stranded in the middle of nowhere. A rainforest or a tundra, hovering in the midst of clouds. It was unpredictable and annoying, often interrupting his planned activities, but it wouldn't be so bad if he hadn't ended up _streaking through a Muggle neighborhood _during one of his little excursions.

"_Tempus_," Harry muttered, and a glowing display of "_15:00_" appeared above his upheld wand. The last thing he remembered was Vanishing his food after his lunch break ended at one. So the trance had lasted for two hours this time, shorter than usual. Still, that was two hours wasted, time that could've been used to puzzle out his current dilemma.

* * *

(_One day before_.)

At first, it seemed like a normal creature injury, and the suspected cause was said to be a snake summoned by the _Serpensortia _spell during a Death Eater raid.

Auror William Smith was taken to the First Floor of St. Mungo's and a Healer was alerted for immediate treatment in order to prevent the poison from spreading further in his blood vessels.

It was two hours into Healer Tracy's attempts to subdue the poison in the Auror's veins that she screamed in sudden pain and collapsed, convulsing multiple times on the floor. When levitated to a hospital bed and examined from an appropriate distance, it was revealed that she displayed the same symptoms as Smith.

Hippocrates Smethwyck, the Healer-in-Charge of the first floor and his Apprentice Healer Augustus Pye had quickly taken action and set the two victims under Statis Charms and a thin magical barrier to prevent further spread. They then began an extensive professional examination.

Harry now stood next to the door, inside the room in which the unconscious Auror Smith and Healer Tracy were quarantined to.

He watched with a heavy ache as their chests rose up in down in weak, panting breaths, and imagined that if he held his palm a centimeter above their mouth, the air trickling out of their lips would barely tickle his skin, the sensation easily mistaken for a hallucination. He knew that if he leant his ear to one of their chests, their heartbeat would be silent, their bloodstreams frozen in time by the Stasis Charms cast upon their bodies.

It was Auror Smith's left arm and shoulder along with Healer Tracy's right hand that worried him the most. Both were rotted, with the skin sunken into the bones like the carcass of a decomposing animal. Harry knew that if left untreated, no matter how successful they were in preventing further spread of the poison, the infected areas would lose complete functionality, leaving Smith and Tracy cripples.

Harry sighed and caught the attention of the only other healthy occupant in the room, a middle-aged man with neatly combed, greying hair. His posture was regal and proud, back straight and head upright as if to reach the heavens. His hands were clasped sternly behind him and his eyes tightened with an intensity of focus as he met Harry's gaze.

"Report, Smethwyck," ordered Harry, as he waved his wand to conjure two seats for both of them. "Start from the beginning."

"Yesterday, William Smith was brought in unconscious and given a low-level examination. Two holes in his skin were found, the perfect size and distance apart to have been acquired from a snake bite, and were identified as such. Smith was sent to the First Floor.

One hour and thirty minutes later, while we were busy Healing the other victims of the raid, Smith's condition worsened. This was when the visible signs of the poison, the rotting, appeared, and his breathing became extremely shallow. We theorized that this was due to the poison having spread intensively inside the bloodstream, and sent Healer Tracy to him for immediate treatment.

However, two hours into the treatment of Smith, Healer Tracy collapsed. When she was examined, it was determined that the poison had somehow been carried over into her veins too, through her right hand.

We can say with more or less complete confidence that this poison is similar to a disease, and spreads through physical contact."

Harry interrupted Smethwyck's explanation, brows furrowed into a frown. "Haven't I already put into action a rule stating that all Healers are to wear proper epidermal protection, including gloves, at all times?"

"You have. However, Healer Tracy has worked here for many years before you became Head Healer, and knows from experience that the patients we treat on the First Floor, for creature induced injuries, are usually not contagious."

Harry groaned in exasperation. Bloody overconfident wizards, always thinking that they were above 'silly Muggle complications'. "Right. Please make sure you remind the First Floor about the gloves again. Have the standard diagnostic scans been performed on Tracy and Smith yet?"

"I carried them out myself." Smethwyck reached into one of the pockets of his white, Healer robes and took out a sheaf of parchments marked with tabs. He tapped his wand on the top page and intoned, "_ad scientiam._ Report on William Smith." Several sheets rose to the top of the stack, and he handed two to Harry.

One was the diagram of Smith's blood vessels, and showed the outline of a male body marked by a series of etched lines, similar to the twisted branches of a disproportionate tree. Around Smith's left arm and shoulder, the lines faded from red into black.

The other paper showed another outline of a body, except this time the only value shown was a light-grey orb around the size of a fist in the middle of Smith's chest.

Smethwyck pointed at the blackened lines on the first report. They were located exactly where the dead skin was. "The poison spreads from the origin through the bloodstream. Once it's completely overtaken a section of the body, the only outward sign of damage is the rotted skin. From our other diagnostic spells, we've seen that the muscle and all other organs are unaffected by the rot."

Harry shuffled the first paper behind the picture of the body with the circle in the chest. "What about this?," he asked, "isn't this an image of Smith's magical core? It looks about average."

The other wizard shook his head and held out another similar image of a body with a core in front of Harry's eyes. "This is from the diagnostic scan on Smith performed by Healer Tracy yesterday."

Harry took the sheet from Smethwyck's hands and compared the two side-by-side for a few minutes before paling slightly.

"Has it...?"

"Yes. The difference is barely noticeable, but it can be theorized with a 15% chance of marginal error that this disease is able to _feed _on a wizard's magical core, making it extremely dangerous," Smethwyck confirmed.

This was an severely important issue. If the public found out that a new disease that was able to suck on a magical core existed, and was most likely developed by the Death Eaters, then it would create a mass panic that would lower the people's moral and result in a mass of frenzied letters directed at St. Mungo's, as well as multiple reporters clamoring for empty reassurances that 'everything will be okay'.

"Any idea how to cure it?" Harry inquired.

"Healer Tracy attempted a series of spells and some general poison antidotes, including a bezoar and the Antidote to Common Poisons. However, most of them were not effective, and some counter-productive. We have hypothesized that the disease running through their veins is a form of a blended poison, and can only be countered by its true antidote, made according to Golpalott's Third Law.

I have begun identifying the foreign substances in their bloodstream, and can begin creating the cure. I will, however, require to be able to carry out certain...experiments."

There was a maniacal shine to the older man's eyes as he stated the last part, and Harry immediately tensed up, remembering the less-than-legal 'experiments' the man had carried out in the past. Even if Smethwyck had made an Unbreakable Vow with Harry to cease his activities, vows were bound to their wording, and the English language was riddled with loopholes formed by meanings that changed with human perception.

"No," Harry declared firmly.

Smethwyck turned to face him, an unspoken threat hidden in his body language, all pretenses of polite formality abandoned.

"I _require_ to be able to carry out certain tests in order to create a proper antidote. A process of trial-and-error is needed; there is no such thing as a lucky success on the first attempt for complicated ailments such as this," he said coldly.

Harry opened his mouth and immediately knew he was being foolish and paranoid. He needed to trust his employees, not project his fears onto them. The elder Healer had not given him any reason for doubt...yet. Harry lifted the two sheets of reports that he had been given and placed them back onto the tabbed stack of papers. He watched as they sank back into their original position.

"...I will trust your judgment then, Smethwyck. Make sure that no word of this disease gets out to the public. Make sure to keep in mind my words from three years ago - I am not merciful."

The Healer-in-Charge inclined his head respectfully, "Yes..._sir_." His dark, intelligent eyes observed the younger for a long moment before continuing, "Speaking of judgment, Head Healer, I would like to make use of yours." He reached a calloused hand, from years of _experiments_, into a robe pocket and took out a vial of a mysterious, green liquid. "This is the most main component of the poison in Healer Tracy and Auror Smith's bloodstream, and the main determinant in the function and purpose of the disease. In other words. this is the key to the cure.

However, it is also an extremely rare substance, one that I have never encountered before in my years of Potions experience. As I am currently focused on analyzing the other components, I have no time to dedicate to this one." He held his palm out, upturned to Harry, the substance cradled on top. "I would appreciate it, _Head Healer_, if you were to assist me in this case. One vial of substance shouldn't be too difficult for you to identify, no?"

Harry took the vial from the other gingerly between two fingers, rolling it around and examining the containment runes etched onto the glass and cork. _He's testing me,_ Harry realized, _testing me in order to make his own assessment of my worthiness._ _He's aware of my lack of proficiency in Potions, and is deliberately giving me the one substance he is unable to identify. If I fail this test, then I lose his respect, and any chance of his allegiance.  
_  
_My specialty is not in Potions. If it is difficult for Smethwyck to identify, it is more than likely that it is not listed in __The Complete Handbook of Potions Ingredients__ due to its rarity, meaning that it will be near impossible for me to name. I already have my schedule filled with tasks and projects, and I am hesitant to add another. I feel no need to prove myself to him. Therefore..._

"No, it will not," Harry agreed, "I have a companion whom I am meeting with tomorrow who is highly skilled in many fields, including Potions. I am sure she will be able to provide her assistance, especially due to her position as _Head _Unspeakable."

He looked back up and met Smethwyck's gaze squarely, searching for the lingering trails of disdain he imagined to be in them. Instead, the other's lips curled up slightly and he turned away, back to the patients, in a gesture of dismissal.

"Best of luck to you, Head Healer."

* * *

(_Present._)

Harry rolled the vial around in his palm, watched as the liquid slid down the sides like sap down punctured bark. It wasn't wise to agitate the substance, but he'd further reinforced the glass with his magic, and was fairly confident that it would hold up.

It was a logical decision to ask Hermione to identify the substance for him. Unlike him, it would take her at most a few hours, due to her intelligence and the multiple Potions ingredient handbooks that he suspected she had collected among the years.

In Hogwarts, she was the brains of their trio, top of all of her classes barring Defense Against the Dark Arts and Spell Creation, which he had managed to conquer thanks in part to Dumbledore's lessons. Ron had been the one with the Wizarding knowledge, and the strategist during the war. Harry was the leader, a child given the role of ordering armies against a Dark Lord.

It was a bittersweet ending. During the final battle, Grindelwald was defeated, only for Dumbledore to fall as well due to a Synchronization curse. Tonks, Fred, Remus, Sirius, countless others and...Ginny, all dead. But...Neville had lived and become the Herbology teacher at Hogwarts. Hermione joined the Unspeakables, and Ron became the Assistant Head Auror, under Kingsley Shackebolt. Luna journeyed around the world, discovering various magical creatures.

Everyone moved on...except for Harry.

For the first year, he retreated, locking himself behind wards and protections and more wards, hiding from his friends and himself and everyone else. For a long while, he immersed himself in books and mindless knowledge and the art of Healing, which he had known about, but never bothered to master...there were so many he could have saved if he had...

It was Tom, Thomas Marvolo Riddle, who had finally broken through his protections and managed to wrench him out of Grimmauld Place. Tom, who had returned to Britain that same year to rise up in the Ministry, and whom his friends had remembered from their years in Hogwarts along with his status as the unmatched genius and brief association with Harry, and contacted him in a fit of desperation.

Harry never bothered to thank him. He'd been perfectly content while secluded from the bothersome opinions of society, and didn't appreciate being blasted through a wall as a 'wake-up call from reality', or being dragged by his collar through the front door because he was supposedly 'acting like a petulant little brat'.

Afterwards, he used his newfound knowledge of Light Healing to train as a Healer, managing to become Head Healer after about three years. It wasn't too hard, truthfully; after all, he was the hero who'd led the war against the Dark Lord, along with being Dumbledore's apprentice, and many had already seen his display of Light Magicks on the battlefield. What was difficult was moving the hospital away from the overly obnoxious nose of the Ministry, who banned the usage of any potions and spells they deemed 'dangerous', and kept placing budget cuts and raising taxes on the hospital. Harry was unsurprised; no wonder the Healers were so useless during the war. But of course, unlike the previous Head Healer, Harry would not settle for being but a puppet leader, not when so many potential lives were at stake.

It took numerous lawyers, blackmail, articles in the Daily Prophet, some Howlers, but most of all, a few direct threats from Harry, to Fudge before St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was recognized as a separate department under the Ministry. Technically they were still under the jurisdiction of the Ministry, but unlike the past two hundred years or so, he was allowed to choose the employees, the potions and spells used, and was no longer forced to boot a patient out on the Ministry's whim (another reason why werewolves hated humans). It wasn't complete independence, they still had to rely on the Ministry for some money issues, and said government could shut them down at any time – but unless Fudge truly was a complete imbecile, that wouldn't happen. Not bad for a year of continuous work. And a good thing, too, with all the Death Eater raids that started recently and the newest rumored Dark Lord, Voldemort...

Harry sighed as he turned his focus back to the present. Right. Work. He had a meeting with Hermione and dinner with both her and Ron later today. One of the only times of the week during which he had human contact – but then again, after an entire year of continuous human contact with Ministerial politicians, and more than five years with the 'adoring' public, he was literally sick of humans.

He turned to a drawer under his desk to his left and waved at it with a hand. It didn't move. He grimaced and took out his wand to try again, and the drawer pulled out smoothly to reveal a stack of paperwork. It was early morning right now, and he had awoken just for this purpose: to finish the paperwork and meet with his friends later, worry-free. Time to start another session of hell...


	2. Hermione

**Spiraling Serenity** **Chapter 2 (Rewritten 8/3/14)**

* * *

_" 'Light Magic represents the apex of humanity, Harry. True Light Magic is fueled by reason and a clear mind. This contrasts with true Dark Magic, which is powered by instinct and aided by wrath. Now tell me Harry, out of the two, which do you think would be more powerful? Reason or pure anger?'_

_The apprentice pondered the issue, biting his lips in thought every now and then, persevering to have his response fully planned out before replying, as he knew that was how Albus preferred it. After a few false starts he gave his answer._

_'I think...a Light wizard could be analogous to a...Muggle sage, I suppose, and a Dark wizard a feral wolf. When faced against each other, the sage would be armed with human logic and the reason to use the environment around him...but the wolf would have his muscles, his sharp teeth, and his unerring senses. I guess it depends? The sage has knowledge, such as how to make fire, but his physical strength is only human. Still, he could trick the wolf with some sort of poisoned meat or something...?'_

_There was a long moment of silence as Albus thought about his student's answer. He smiled._

_'Yes...That is quite an interesting way to look at the subject, Harry. I suppose that in the end, the two forces are equal after all.' " _

_– (Harry Potter's personal lessons with Albus Dumbledore, 1937)_

* * *

They sat together in the corner of an average, Muggle buffet. The interior of the building was painted in earthy tones with spacious windows displaying the wide expanse of the sky and the nearby road. The tables were decorated with ornate spirals, and the chairs each held a red, velvet cushion. The customers inside chattered and laughed as they shared their everyday lives with each other, and one or two would lift their wine glass every now and then to give a joking congratulations to another. Mouth-watering aromas, including those of well-cooked steak and steaming soup drifted through the air.

Slightly apart from the rest of the people sat a bushy, brown-haired witch who exuded an aura of intelligent brilliance, and her lunch partner. The woman usually spent her Sunday's last two meals at the home of her companion, but today, she had insisted that he go out into the world and re-familiarize himself with the presence of other life forms. It was unhealthy and mentally harmful to keep to himself so much, holing away from the outside world and reality. She could count the number of people he normally talked to in a month on one hand alone.

Hermione observed her childhood friend who sat across from her, and was relieved to see that although his posture was slightly hunched over and he winced at some loud shouts every now and then from the crowd around them, his hands were steady as he gingerly lifted a cup of tea to his lips. However, there was also the matter of the heavy bags under his emerald eyes, the circular glasses askew on his nose, and his bedraggled black hair.

After the war, she and Ron had somewhat recovered, settling back into a 'normal' life, secure in the knowledge that they still had each other. However, Harry...after Ginny...no, after Grindelwald was defeated, Harry gained a certain lost look in his eyes, and secluded himself from the rest of the world, immersing himself in knowledge and books and work. It was as if he had lost all sense of purpose. Even now, his expression was shadowed, as he gazed downwards at his meager plate of food.

"How was your day, Hermione?" Harry interrupted the two's silence with a casual question as he brought his cup up for another sip.

"Quite good." and then, calculatingly, "what about you, Harry? How are your trances?" And there it was. Hermione watched as Harry's knuckles whitened around the cup, his grip tightening as if to shatter the glass. During the first two months, in which Harry had holed himself up in Grimmauld Place, Hermione had gone through a multitude of Muggle psychology books, in an effort to find anything, anything, that she could use to help and understand Harry. And she did understand, even if he thought she didn't. Right now, he was still in the denial phase of coping, refusing to confront the past. He'd been in the denial phase for five years now. It was her duty, as his friend, to pull him back, help him confront his fears and realize that _life goes on._

"You're not my psychologist," Harry's teeth clenched as he set his glass back onto the table with a thump_. _Hermione had learned from experience that Harry hated talking about himself and his personal memories, even with his own friends. That quirk of his had only increased after Ginny had died. In Harry's mind, he was different from them; she and Ron still had each other, had never lost each other. Because of that difference between them, Harry thought that he had no one to confide in, who would understand, no matter how hard she and Ron tried to fill that role, and therefore oftentimes expressed his pent-up emotions by lashing out instead of confessing.

"Dr. Maxwell told me that you have been skipping your last few sessions," she informed him.

Harry sneered, "I don't have any mental illness. I don't need a _doctor_ to treat my mind."

Hermione had known back when she begged Harry to attend at least one session that he would not react kindly to having his brain picked at. She respected his privacy and knew that he was still grieving, after all, Ginny had been like the other half of his soul, to put it in cliche terms, just like how Hermione felt towards Ron. But _five years_ was too much, and it pained her to see her friend like this, with the hopeless look in his eyes that his closest friends easily noticed, a shadow of his former self. He might have revolutionized his field as a Healer, but his personal life was falling apart. He only talked to her and Ron once a week, and Teddy, whom he had pledged to take care of, was practically handed over to Andromeda and ignored.

Surprisingly, it was Ron who had ended up recommending Dr. Maxwell, after asking his colleagues at work about what to do about 'a friend of his who lost someone important to him and is still grieving'. Hermione had talked with Dr. Maxwell, and confirmed that the doctor was skilled in her field, and convinced Harry to 'try it out'. He attended about three sessions before quitting.

"Wizarding psychologists are not like Muggle psychologists and you know this, Harry. Their duty is moreso to cure the effects of negative magical influences on the mind, such as the _Cruciatus_, rather than any suspected mental illnesses," Hermione calmly reminded him.

Their food lay untouched on the table, neither being in the mood to eat, the rich aroma soaking and fading into the air, mingling with all the other smells.

"I'm fine," Harry firmly repeated, "the trances are _fine_," he gritted his teeth, "_I don't need to be treated._"

Hermione took a bite of her shrimp salad and carefully observed her friend as she chewed. He was visibly on edge, most likely from recent stressful events. It wasn't wise push him too far in this state of mind. It was time to back down now, give him some space.

"I respect your decision, Harry," she murmured, "but I recommend you see her at least one more time, if only to make sure the money doesn't go wasted."

Harry didn't answer, instead taking a packet of sugar along with a spoon and mixing it into his tea before stopping with a sigh. "I'm sorry...Hermione. I didn't mean to be so...angry towards you. I shouldn't be acting like this, especially if I was planning to ask for your help," he said.

Hermione blinked, touched by the apology, and smiled. "It's fine, Harry. I should have been less confrontational in my concern. What do you need my assistance on?"

He swiftly updated her on the current status of the new magical disease they'd discovered, how there were only two victims so far but could become devastating if correctly utilized by the Death Eaters, the current status with Smethwyck, and the vial of green liquid he needed to identify.

She lifted the small beaker filled with the acidic substance and studied it closely. It had a high viscosity, and seemed darker and heavier where it gathered at the very bottom. It was also slightly translucent, the light slipping through it yet still creating a shadow.

The intelligent witch thought about Harry's request. Truthfully, she would happily accept it without any conditions, after all, Harry was her friend, and she already had an idea of what was in the vial thanks to the research she'd done in seventh year...but she was his friend, and wanted to help him.

_Someone who he can confide in...someone who he feels could understand him...This person must be close to him, but not too close. Someone from his past, who will force him to confront it._

"I'll accept your request," Hermione said, "on two conditions."

Harry's eyes narrowed, and he gazed at her, wary. "...What is it?"

Hermione took a deep breath, as she thought over her idea. Would it help? Perhaps not...but she needed to try. Needed him to try.

"You resume your meetings with Dr. Maxwell again and...visit Snape."

Her companion choked on the sip of drink he was taking, bringing up his fist to hack into it, before demanding, "...What."

Hermione ignored his less-than-optimal reaction, forging on with her argument. "Whenever we ask you 'what's wrong', or try to talk about Ginny or the past with you, you always tell us that 'we wouldn't understand', Harry," the wizard flinched at the word 'Ginny' before looking plain guilty at the rest of her words, "but Snape -"

Harry interrupted, "Yeah, I get it, you think Snape's a lot like me, don't you? Becoming an isolationist after the war, being all lonely and pitiful, etc., etc – "

Hermione jumped to her feet, her knees banging on the table, and hissed, frustrated with her friend's continual refusal to _get on with his life_, "I get it, Harry. No one understands you, no one's like you, you're all alone, poor poor you. But you _can't bloody stay this way forever_! What about Ron? Me? Mrs. Weasley? Don't you know how worried we are for you? Do you want us to pity you? Is that what you want? What do you want? Is there anything you really, truly want, Harry?"

There was a silence between as Harry's lips opened and closed, and Hermione stilled as she feared his answer. What if he replied that he wanted to stay this way forever? That there was nothing that he truly wanted? That he was alone? The old Harry would've never said anything of those answers, but the old Harry no longer existed. Finally, as Hermione sat down once again, smoothing down the back of her formal skirt with her hands to make it lie flat under her, he spoke.

"...Yeah."

Hermione watched him closely, noticing that his arms no longer shook, his posture no longer slouched, and his eyes were steady as he said that one word. She waited for him continue, knowing better than to prod him along, and feeling an odd sort of hope as he replied.

"Yeah I... I'll attend the sessions with Dr. Maxwell again, and I'll visit Snape sometime next week – " seeing the small smile on Hermione's lips, he added, "no promises about any friendly chatting, mind you. We'll probably just end up arguing again."

"You two were pretty close during the war," Hermione remarked, remembering their constant arguments and how when she finally looked closer, beneath the bickering, she'd noticed a bewildering kind of camaraderie.

Harry made a face, causing her to giggle at his sudden childishness. "...If you say so."

They continued the rest of the meal with lighthearted remarks jabbed at each other, and casual conversation, avoiding the heavier topics they had breached earlier.

* * *

Late at midnight, they stood in a white-walled office freed from its previous chaos of papers, the parchments instead aligned on the wooden desk with the edges so neatly in line it was inhuman. Magical. Harry knew from this that Beatrice had been to his room, and organized the papers into respective categories, which were labeled at the very top of each stack.

In front of him was Smethwyck, whom he had just handed the vial back to, announcing the name of its contents at the same time. Hermione had given it back to him during dinner with Ron, her identification finished. The older, neatly-combed wizard stood still with his face's wrinkled neatly shifted into a mild expression of shock. Harry felt more or less pleased by this rare display of emotion from Smethwyck, who was usually as cold as an empty tundra.

"Basilisk venom..." Smethwyck muttered, "how is that possible...the last recorded basilisk died out centuries ago..."

"If it helps any," offered Harry in an unhelpful tone, "in my seventh year, a bunch of students got petrified. Hermione said it was probably a Basilisk, and it was only thanks to the school's wards that only one girl died. I never saw it myself, but maybe that's where it's from?" The Dark Mark that had often been displayed in the sky had a snake slithering from its mouth...supposedly, only a Parseltongue could enter the Chamber of Secrets...Harry barely had any facts, but his instincts suddenly gave him a foreboding feeling.

"So this is what gives the disease its contagious capabilities...such a thing would not be possible with ordinary ingredients...," Smethwyck muttered as he distractedly peered at the vial.

"How long until you can develop a potential cure?," Harry asked.

Smethwyck looked back up and replied, "A cure to your standards, sir, with at least an 80% chance of success would take about a month or so. However, what is concerning is the cost. I will need at least an ounce of phoenix tears, the only known antidote to the otherwise fatal basilisk venom."

"Right," Harry thought of Fawkes, who had disappeared with a final song during Albus' funeral, and wished that he was still here, "Talk to Beatrice after this and she'll arrange the budget with you."

The Healer-in-Charge absently nodded, lost in a scientific world of his own, his mind pondering various answers.

"Also, after you've completed a successful product, work on simplifying and making it cost-efficient." _After all, the Death Eaters were most likely the ones who developed this disease, and if they truly do have access to a continuous supply of basilisk venom..._

"You're interesting," Smethwyck suddenly stated, his body standing stiffly straight up again and his piercing gaze boring directly into Harry's eyes.

Harry blinked, caught off-guard at the sudden change of mood from earlier.

"...What?" he asked dumbly.

"Working under you is interesting, Head Healer, and as long as that is true, you have no fear of me betraying you in any way." The elder wizard bowed to Harry and strode confidently out of the room.

The only person left in the room blinked a few more times at the sudden change of character from a person who had treated him like an ant just several hours before, before deciding not to think about it to much. Who knew how the minds of mad geniuses worked...(perhaps Hermione would? Sometimes he suspected she secretly was one...)

_It's late,_ Harry decided, _I should Apparate back to Grimmauld Place and get to bed._ _Today's Saturday, and I have to see Snape next week so I'll need plenty of sleep._

* * *

_It was happiness and sadness. Laughter and then death. Fred alive and holding up a finger to his lips as he motioned at another hidden passageway that he'd found only to drop, frozen as blood splattered in midair._

_Silver eyes, false sympathy, then a cruel smile._

_Sirius giving a last barking laugh, lips still and gaze wide, not yet comprehending as he tilted backwards, a final spell sinking its teeth into his chest._

_And through it all, red. Red hair that weaved through his dreams, red flames that burned in his mind, red blood splattered amongst ripped intestines and sparking ashes left behind. A flowery scent and a warmth in his right hand and next to his heart that he could no longer reach._

_It was tortured paradise, lovely hell, one that he longed for and hated at the same time. It twisted his mind further than it already had been, pushing past the mortal limit named sanity._

_This time, he dreamed of red once more, and a whispered name. His name._

_She sat next to him, his head in her lap, her fingers carding through his hair as they whispered countless promises to each other, little jokes that completed them._

_They sat next to their tree at Hogwarts, the one that they'd spent countless afternoons beside, laughing about a white-fenced house and little miniature copies of them running and flying about. The tree was an ancient oak with heavy branches, vibrant leaves towering up to brush and grasp the skies on top of a strong, stooped trunk._

_Sometimes they'd try to climb it together, each egging the other on, seeing who could go further, reach higher. She usually won, bright brown eyes flaming down at him with a taunting grin before he finally threw his hands up in defeat. It wasn't because he was scared or anything, alright! It's just that well...he's heavier and all,and taller, too, therefore it was more difficult for him to climb upwards...She'd roll her eyes, "Harry, darling, you're as skinny and light as a bean pole. Either man up or admit defeat."_

_However, this time, he just remained still, laying without moving, drinking up every detail of her freckled face with the thirst of a man wandering in an empty desert for weeks on end._

_Then, after what felt like an eternity yet nowhere near enough, he reached up slowly, desperately, haltingly – and like always, his hand slipped through her, slipping through her cheek as if she were nothing more than insubstantial air. Or a mirage. She smiled sadly at him as she faded away, the scene shifting and twisting once more even as he reached out as far as he could, trying to brush her, feel the touch of her warm skin on his cold fingers._

_She leaned downwards as she disappeared, reaching her own hand down to brush his face, and whispered oh-so softly..."Harry, darling, don't you think it's time to let me go?"_


	3. Snape

**Spiraling Serenity** **Chapter 3**

**A/N: So..I've rewritten the whole story as it is so far which, luckily, only spans a few chapters right now. The plot line has been slightly adjusted, and the previous 'Chapter 1' has been split into two parts. **

**Previous readers are highly recommended to at least scan over the previous chapters.**

**Chapter 4 will be updated soon.**

* * *

Harry stuffed his hands into his Muggle jeans, posture carefully relaxed as he strode along the narrow street of Spinner's End. It was shadowed even in daylight, any trace of sun blocked out by the lopsided, cluttered roofs. The shabby houses on both sides of him were built so closely together it seemed as if they had melted together into a lumpy mass of patched-up porridge, and the narrow winding path they parted around was littered with crumbled trash and cloth.

To be truthful...he wasn't entirely adverse to seeing Snape again. Although the hook-nosed man was continuously sharp with his hurtful remarks and drawling voice, they had worked with each other and saved each other's life on more than a few occasions. It was only their stubbornness and their continuous insistence that, no matter what, they were _not _friends that urged them to only call each other by their last names. Snape and Potter; Potter and Snape.

By the end of the war, Harry trusted the git somewhat...but nowhere near any of his friends, because Snape was in no way his friend. The reason why he'd given in to Hermione's demands so easily wasn't because he was worried about Snape or anything; he just wanted to check on how miserable the other was. That was all.

The sharp sounds of his footsteps that rang in the heavy silence ceased as he reached the door of another broken-down house, with dusty windows and a cracked roof. Harry examined the wooden door closely, and knew from his previous visit with Albus that although when opened, it lead to what seemed like a single library and the only room in the entire house, the other rooms were underground and could be accessed by a wizard through a set of stairs. Harry wondered why Snape, who should have a steady income due to his status as a Hogwarts' teacher and a Potions Master, he didn't get a better house, with more specialized labs for Potioneering...maybe this one had memories? Or he liked dungeons? Or maybe he mostly used the equipment at Hogwarts?

Harry neatly rapped his knuckles on the door three times and waited for a response. There was none. Well then. Should he open his mouth and yell? Or maybe Snape was working on some sort of important concoction? He should yell then, get some revenge for his old Hogwarts days where Snape purposely stared and picked on him while he was in heavy concentration.

He opened his mouth, filling his lungs with air in preparation for a bellow when the door opened a crack and a single dark eye peered out and narrowed.

"What is it, Potter?" A hoarse voice demanded.

Harry racked his brain for something to say. 'Hermione ordered me to talk to see you' sounded incredibly lame, but 'I wanted to talk to you' was even worse. What was he supposed to say to someone he barely liked and hadn't spoken to for five years?

"Er...Hi?" He finally managed, before immediately feeling stupid. Merlin, he'd lead a war, only to have a verbal break down in front of his old Potions professor.

Snape heaved a sigh, and was that an eye roll he just saw? Harry decided not to think on it any longer than necessary. The door was opened just enough for him to uncomfortably slip through, and Harry did so, choking as he slid past Snape. He got a full whiff of what resembled a mix of stale bread and unwashed laundry, rotten eggs and some random spices, Potions ingredients and most prominently, _grease._

"Merlin, Snape," Harry coughed out as he covered his nose with a hand, "how long since you've bathed?"

Snape sneered and replied, "That is none of your concern, Potter. However, rest assured that I do make sure that I am adequate for proper company; unlike you, I am not prone to becoming an isolationist for months on end."

Ignoring the insinuation that he didn't count as proper company, Harry dramatically staggered to the couch, and collapsed with an exaggerated sigh. The first and only room on ground level was crowded with books on every wall. The only lighting came from a filtered window that peeked in between two bookshelves, illuminating the dust freely floating in the air.

The only inhabitant of the house stood in front of Harry. His face was sallow and sunken below his eyes, and his hair dripped down to border his face on either side. His lips were pale and curled downwards in an eternal scowl, and his forehead was marked with deep frown lines. As Snape's dark eyes glared balefully at Harry, he recalled a memory from back in Hogwarts that was forcibly carved into his brain: two girls walking in the hallway, giggling to each other about how '_sexy' _and '_mysterious'_ the Potions professor looked. Harry remembered feeling not disgust when he overheard that certain exchange, but more of a horrified _'why,_ _why would you ever _–' (which only intensified when the girls continued on about 'the Professor's hot, silky voice'; perhaps they'd been on the Wizarding version of LSD?)_. _When he later asked Hermione about why anyone would ever find _Snape_ sexy, she just rolled her eyes and muttered '_Boys...' _in an exasperated tone...but then again, _she_ had been infatuated with _Gilderoy Lockhart_, so Harry probably couldn't expect any sort of logical explanation from her. But wait, if girls found Snape sexy then –

"Have you ever had a girlfriend?" Harry blurted out, before promptly flushing. But still, he prayed in his head, _please say no, please say no...oh merlin why did I even ask I'm just begging to be scarred..._

Snape raised a sardonic eyebrow and drawled, "Potter, if you intruded upon my privacy to barrage me with inane questions such as this –"

" – Nope, nope, on second thought, please don't answer what I just asked," Harry interrupted all too happily. He did _not_ want his mental image of Snape as a more-humanoid-Dementor-devoid-of-positive-emotion to be blasted into shreds.

For a brief moment, he was filled with nostalgia. Although he would never admit it to _anyone_, the Potions Master had a sort of...refreshing honesty that one could appreciate once they got past his biting words and trance-inducing drawl, and sometimes, he just wanted to talk to a person _without_ them constantly biting back their words and reigning in their opinions for fear of hurting 'poor, fragile Harry'.

Now, as for the actual reason he was here...

"I'm supposed to talk with you," Harry explained stiffly, his fingers tapping on the arm of the couch nervously.

Snape appeared contemplative before replying, "About the war, Potter? Or," his lips cruelly curved upwards, "about your dead girlfriend whom you cling to so pitifully?"

Harry gritted his teeth. Right. Brutally honest. If sessions with traditional psychologists could be considered 'friendly therapy', designed to have him 'heal' by talking it out nicely, then any talks with Snape would definitely be 'hate therapy', designed for him to 'let it out' by screaming his throat hoarse. He wondered if Hermione had planned it that way. Probably; she was a devious one.

Once upon a time, with little more pressure, he would have exploded at Snape with anger, but he had matured beyond that point, and responded, "Oh I don't know, Snape. Personally, I feel like discussing teddy bears. They're quite cute. Or perhaps we could talk about the practical uses of Sugar Quills?"

Snape gazed contemptuously down at Harry from his high vantage point of a standing position, and Harry wished for a moment that he had his wand out and could enlarge the bottom part of his cushiony seat and raise it higher, above the other's head.

"Perhaps some other time, Potter, we could talk about your childish interests. However, it has been quite a long while – five years, if I am counting correctly – since I have had anyone to talk to about the war. Now...let me think back...yes, what was that nickname that they had for you? The White Demon? Or perhaps it was something more simple...something more like..._monster_?"

The Healer's fingernails dug tightly into the arms of the sofa, but his voice was carefree as he replied, "Ah, is that so? I also remember that they called me an _angel_. Perhaps the two aren't so different after all."

Snape's distorted smirk curled upwards even higher, contrasting against his usual mask of a smirk, and Harry unconsciously tensed in response. "Yes, that is correct...they did indeed hail you as an angel as well...up until, of course," his voice lowered to a near-whisper, mocking in its pretense of secrecy, "_the final battle_."

And at this, Harry hissed wrathfully, at the mention of the one thing he had avoided thinking of, and his friends avoided ever bringing up, the sudden emotional jab inciting a spiral of fire stirring in his chest. He rose to his feet and locked eyes with Snape, glaring into those unfathomable, dark depths and was about to do something, anything, when –

A beaming spear of pain shot through his skull as the foreign burn of an invader ripped hungrily into his mind, plunging deeper and deeper, searching. He could feel it twisting and turning, reaching for his personal memories, batting away at his meager mental defenses, easily breaking into the most private areas of his mind, and he felt utterly violated in a way that no physical force could achieve.

He was frozen in place, helpless as the hooked-nose _bastard_ plundered his mind, refusing to even reveal what thoughts and memories he was stealing, and Harry was flooded with pain, so much pain that he was unable to move or reach for his wand. The invasion took moments, seconds (or was it months and years?) before the force withdrew from his mind, and he immediately fell to his knees as a powerless sensation overtook his body.

Powerless. That was an emotion he hadn't felt for quite a while, and he hated himself for feeling it now, and for never mastering Occlumency. However, what he felt even more strongly than hatred or any form of anger was...betrayal. In a way he had never admitted to himself, he had...trusted Snape, who he had known as long as any of his friends, and who had fought by his side against Grindelwald's forces. It was a bitter sensation, teeming in his heart and causing his mouth to water. But not his eyes. Never his eyes. (But really, what did he expect? In the end, he always ended up betrayed...)

Slowly, refusing to look upwards, Harry reached for his wand and muttered the first spell that came to mind and would achieve his purposes. "_Accio_, Snape's clothes." He stood back up and got a vindictive satisfaction at the shocked expression on his former professor's face as his robes were stripped off of him.

And there it was. On his left forearm, a black skull intertwined at its mouth with a snake. Harry supposed it wasn't too surprising. He should have known; the disease, now named _Basiliscus, _was potions-based, after all. Also, Snape was abused by his Muggle father during his childhood, and many of the Light during his youth. All the signs had been there; Harry was just too blind, too stupid to see them.

He turned around. Their meeting was over. "See you, Snape," Harry said evenly, "hope you have fun with your _Lord_, killing off Muggles for laughs. Say 'hi' to Bellatrix for me and Neville." He got halfway to the door before he was interrupted by a single word from the singular individual he thought that he would never hear it from.

"Wait."

Harry was shocked enough by the other's almost pleading tone to still his unsteady strides for a moment.

Snape cleared his throat before continuing, visibly uncomfortable. "My...my godson. They..._he _threatened my godson."

The Healer looked back at the older man, gazing at a spot above his right shoulder and responding, "I...see."

And then he left.

* * *

Harry paced the length of his office, his fingers riffling through his hair as he pondered the implications of Snape's use of Legilimency on him. Needless to say, it was on the orders of Voldemort. Snape's association with him, even if it was only due to a threat on Draco Malfoy, suggested that this new Dark Lord was not to be underestimated, and had seen that the only threats to his uprising included not the Ministry, who continued to insist that the Death Eater's raids were lead by a 'wannabe Dark wizard', but Harry Potter, former apprentice of Albus Dumbledore, Leader of the war against Grindelwald, and a Light Lord in all but name.

He wondered how Voldemort would react if he knew of his current disability to cast any wandless magic. The Dark Lord probably wouldn'tve used something as indirect as Legilimency, then; he would've directed Snape to kill him on sight, or perhaps sneak a poison into his food.

What worried Harry even more than the Dark Lord attempting to eliminate him was what exactly Snape was ordered to gleam from his memories. It was evident from Snape's cloaking of his mental movements that Harry was not to know what exactly Voldemort was searching for.

The mental attack from Snape itself only spanned a few seconds, hypothetically just long enough to catch a glance of whatever it was , but Harry was concerned nonetheless. A few seconds was all it took for Snape to travel back to his lessons with Albus and glean knowledge about the workings of Light Magic, or perhaps back a few days to his talk with Smethwyck about _Basiliscus, _if Snape knew what he was looking for.

Harry shook his head. For all he knew, Snape could've been ordered to see all the way back to his childhood with the Dursleys, just to learn his weaknesses. If he wanted to avoid any more instances of mental attacks, he would have to develop a counter-guard. He'd been practicing Occlumency for five years, but progress was frustratingly slow, and he still stood no chance against a master Legilimens. It would be far faster in the meanwhile to develop a spell to kick any unwanted intruders out of his mind, or a temporary mental shield that would keep his mind safe from all attacks.

He wondered how _Protego_ would affect a Legilimens' attack...

* * *

In the darkness, a single man sat alone in a room lit by a single fancy chandelier hanging in the middle of the ceiling. His quill moved in a sinuous motion, filling out papers and plans as his mind pondered a thousand things as one.

His position as the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic was nicely acquired, and Fudge was practically a puppet to his whims. Sadly, he still needed the fool in order to create discord; his plans were falling into place perfectly, and if this continued, then there would be no need for the complete destruction of the Ministry. It would be a rather bothersome hassle to shape something to replace it, after all.

To the rest of the world, he was only Tom Marvolo Riddle, a genius of twenty-six years of age, a handsome wizard with powerful connections and a high position in the Ministry, answerable only to the Minister himself. Of course, he would never allow the fool to order him about in any way, but the public were unaware of that.

It was time to stir the sheep up.

There was a knock on his door and Tom greeted without raising his head from his work, "Enter, Severus."

The door opened to reveal a pale man with sunken eyes and a grimace. His black robes in slight disarray, contrary to their usual state of wrinkle-free cleanliness.

"My Lord," Snape intoned with a deep bow, his limp hair draping down around his head as he did so.

All of the hallways near his personal office were kept clear at all times, due to Tom's specification to Fudge that he detested noise and large crowds. Nonetheless...Tom rolled his quill around in his fingers as he lazily spoke.

"I thought I ordered that no one was to make contact with me at my...work at any time?"

Snape straightened up but kept his head respectfully lowered. "Yes, my Lord. However, you also specified to me to contact you immediately after fulfilling your commands with the...Potter boy." The man's fists clenched slightly as he said this, and Tom wondered if it was out of affection or hatred for 'the Potter boy'. Most likely hatred; after all, 'the Potter boy's father, James Potter, was a constant tormentor of Snape during his youth.

"Of course," Tom said, "However, please do refrain from visiting me unless called for the rest of this month. I have a very important guest coming sometime, and it would not do for him to see us two together."

If Snape felt any confusion at his words, he did not indicate so. His face remained blank as he bowed once again and replied, "Yes, my Lord."

Tom smiled and set down his quill, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. "Begin," he ordered.


	4. Dr Maxwell

**Spiraling Serenity**** Chapter 4  
**

* * *

_"'Now, Harry, within both Light and Dark, there are different levels of magic. True magic is a rank above basic magic. Do you remember what basic Light magic is fueled by?'_

_'Mostly happiness and joy.'_

_'That is correct. Because the magic cores of most wizards are grey, they are able to perform neutral spells along with basic spells from both Light and Dark their entire lives._

_However, those who devote time to practicing magic from only one orientation or the other will discover that spells from the side they choose will grow more and more powerful as their cores become more and more attuned...and eventually, they will be able to perform pure magic. However, to choose a side is also a choice of sacrifice; they will eventually become unable to perform any spells of the opposite orientation.'_

_'But, sir...if pure magic is so powerful and demands such a sacrifice, then why do you say that Love is the greatest magic of all?'_

_'Ah...that is because, Harry...Love is neither Light nor Dark, it is above orientations and sides, beyond words, defying both reasons and instincts...it is able to make even the greatest of sacrifices acceptable...one day, you will see and understand for yourself...'"_

_– (Harry Potter's personal lessons with Albus Dumbledore, 1937)  
_

* * *

Alissa Maxwell was a slim, shapely woman with kind eyes and obsessed with Muggle psychology and 'the inner workings of the human mind'. She wore her blonde hair in a combed, neat bun, and adorned her pink lips with a friendly smile. The only lines visible on her face were around her mouth, giving her a homely impression. Harry had never seen her without her white doctor's robes, although that might be because he never saw her outside of their sessions._  
_

He was seated in a plush couch seven feet away from her, inside a medium-sized, friendly room decorated with warm colors and pale lighting above them. He suspected that the walls, the space, the proximity of the doctor from him, and the food set in-between them were calculated to ease him into a less wary state of mind. Or he might be over-thinking it.

"I'm not here because I want to be," Harry muttered sullenly as he crossed his arms and sank back deeper into the back of his seat.

"If that is so," Dr. Maxwell spoke in a soft, kind voice, "there is no need for us to be wasting our time here. If you yourself do not desire recovery, then these sessions will only be counterproductive." With a nod towards the Healer, she lifted herself out of her seat and walked towards him in preparation to show him out of the room.

"W-wait," Harry flushed and held out a hand to still her, "I..." It was a demeaning blow to his pride and sense of individuality to admit that he did indeed need help, that his issues were mental and not physical and that he could not fix them by himself, that he just might be powerless in this regard for once...but it had been five years, and he had wallowed in his misery for far too long. "I...I haven't been...at my best recently. My temper's been short and my moods have been volatile. I need to get better. I...I need, I want to be here."

She smiled at him, and it was a gentle smile, an outwards display of her approval. She turned back to her seat and sat down again, while making sure that her robes were not crushed underneath her body. "That was the first step we skipped in our previous sessions, Harry. Acceptance. That is what we will aim to work towards for you, together."

"Acceptance?" Harry raised a questioning brow. Dr. Maxwell nodded, and gazed at him with her compassionate, hazel eyes.

"Yes, acceptance, the ability to recognize a situation without attempting to protest or change it. The act of incorporating the situation into your version of reality without pushing it away. It is a very powerful concept." She paused, closing her eyes as if assimilating all of her thoughts before continuing, "But, now, this is a bit too serious for our first conversation in a long while. Let us make friendly, everyday chat for a while, Harry, and slowly ease into the deeper issues later. Feel free to speak to me about anything; remember that the terms I signed at the beginning of our contract ensures our agreement of doctor-patient confidentiality."

Harry picked up a small, handle-less teacup decorated with a inked dragon and sipped at the liquid inside of it. _Green tea._ He wondered what to talk about. Well, there was one thing that happened recently that wouldn't stop occupying his mind.

"I visited Severus Snape recently."

Dr. Maxwell didn't verbally respond, instead looking at him with an encouraging, accepting expression.

Harry continued, "We fought side-by-side during Grindelwald's War. Protected each other's back and all. Slept in the same tent, saved each other's lives, even talked about our pasts. In the middle of all those struggles, he was the one of the only ones who didn't see me as the infallible leader, who didn't rely on me blindly to save his life. Even Ron and Hermione..." Harry stilled his talk, falling back into old memories.

It was a war. The body count on both sides rose. And in the middle of it, there were eyes, eyes that looked towards him, who had been placed as the Leader by the great Albus Dumbledore, and expected him to win and save them all. When the war began, he was seventeen years old, and it was a frightening thing, to suddenly hold the life of three hundred humans in his hand. While the number of wizards on both sides were not high, they made up for it in individual power.

It was frightening; making decisions while wondering how many lives it would take, picturing empty gazes staring blankly into his with every choice he made. How many troops did the enemy have? Was the information on the enemy position correct? Or would it be an ambush? Some days he didn't want to wake up, just wanted to stay asleep in his dreams without one million possibilities crushing his chest.

But what was most frightening of all were those instances where he stared into his friends' eyes and realized that they, too, and saw him as the Leader, an existence different from theirs, looked up to him in a way that friends shouldn't and couldn't.

In those days, what had kept him sane was Snape and..._her._ (Yes, in a way, even Albus had abandoned him, hiding away in his great castle out of shame and fear...)

Harry shook his head and broke his train wreck of thoughts. He hated dwelling on his past, and this was no time to do it. He cleared his throat to speak again.

"I'd always known that he wasn't all Light, at least not magically, but I thought that at least viewpoint-wise, he was but then...he did something to prove he...wasn't..." Harry trailed off lamely. He couldn't exactly tell Dr. Maxwell Snape was a Death Eater, after all, even if she was under a contract, there was always the risk of her behavior and reactions betraying her knowledge.

The psychologist did not seem perturbed by his obvious omission, instead calmly bringing her hands up from her lap to rest on the arms of her chair.

"It is not his affiliation that you are upset by; instead, it is his perceived betrayal," she stated.

He tapped his fingers lightly on the side of the porcelain cup he still held in his hand. "...Yeah. He had a good reason to do it...yet I felt betrayed..."

"Emotions more often than not have no specific connection to reason."

"Yeah." Harry smiled wryly. "That's quite true. Still, my emotional reaction to his betrayal was too much."

"The war you fought in; was there a betrayal during it that affected your life heavily?"

Harry tensed, and set his empty teacup down with a loud clink. "...No. Not really...I apologize, but I do not feel prepared to speak about my experiences during it yet."

Dr. Maxwell nodded in acceptance. "And that is fine. We will proceed at your pace."

They continued their session, speaking about Snape, Hermione, Ron, his friends, his favorite foods and daily life in St. Mungo's and not once did they ever touch on the forbidden subject again.

At the end of their one-hour session, Dr. Maxwell called out to him with one last message.

"Harry, I have a task I would like you to complete before our next session," she said. Harry looked at her curiously.

"What is it?" He asked.

"Talk to someone, anyone. Not just a coworker, mind you, but someone that you enjoy talking to, and would like to see as a friend."

Harry hesitated. "Well...there is someone whom I usually visit once every thirty days or so..." _Although I will never, ever admit any of her specifications to his face. In my mind, he's on the same level as Snape _– _no, worse _– _or better, after what happened? Or maybe I _should_ tell him, just to see his reaction?_

Dr. Maxwell looked curious, as Harry had never mentioned him in any of their previous sessions, but inclined her head. "Yes, that is fine."

Harry walked towards the oak door, running a hand through his messy hair, before stopping and nodding at her. "See you again next week." The doctor gave a smile in response.

* * *

A Healer ran up to him as he entered back through the front doors of the hospital.

"Sir!" She called, "We need your assistance, please."

Officially, Harry's only responsibilities was managing St. Mungo's, signing forms, and accepting only the most desperate Healing tasks. However, unlike the Aurors, Healers did not undergo a further intense training curriculum, and were accepted based on grades alone, due to the Wizard logic of 'as long as they know magic, they'll be fine.' The job itself was also average pay, as the building itself survived off of Ministerial funds, and with Harry's current stringent relationship with Cornelius Fudge...

When Harry had become Head Healer, he hadn't had the heart to arrange a through flushing of the hospital, especially not after an entire year of fighting with the Ministry, and had instead instilled a training curriculum for the incoming trainee Healers.

However, as Harry had found out the hard way, reformation took time, and with the former Healers still in place it would take even longer. The issue with most of the Healers was that give them an issue they'd studied, for example splinching, and they'd do fine. However, give them one that they hadn't confronted yet and they'd be completely helpless.

Well, Harry didn't have much to do anyways right now so..."Sure," He said to the trainee Healer, "lead the way."

She gave a panicked bow and immediately dashed off without checking to see if Harry was following. They went directly to the elevator to the right of the Welcome Counter on the First Floor, and entered. As the enclosed space rose upwards, Harry continued thinking about the session he'd just had with his psychologist. He couldn't exactly say he felt better after it...He supposed he felt slightly relieved, to be able to talk to someone without worrying that they would leak it to anyone else. Whenever he talked with Ron and Hermione, he went on edge whenever it felt as if they were pushing too far into his privacy, and after the first year or so, they usually automatically backed up when his temper was incited. Perhaps what he needed was to talk to a stranger?

The elevator doors opened with a ding, a pleasant voice announcing "Fourth Floor, Spell Damage," and the trainee rushed off again in a hurry. They traversed through various halls, turning every now and then, before stopping at a white door numbered '414'. The trainee reached for the door and flung it open, and Harry blinked at the scene inside.

On top of the white bed, alone in the room, with his legs hanging off of the edge, was a man sitting upwards and with his head literally backwards. The edge he was sitting on was the one farther away from the door, with his chest facing away from them and his face pointed towards them. At the sight of them, his mouth opened wide into a toothy smile, his short beard dipping below his shoulders.

"Hello!" He greeted joyfully, "it's nice to meet you!" He was a jolly-looking man, with a flabby stomach indicating a hearty appetite, and an energetically waving meaty hand.

Harry ignored him for a moment while addressing the more concerning matter, asking the trainee, "Where is your mentor?" Trainee Healers, having finished their required training classes, were a tier above Student Healers, and one below Apprentice Healers. The trainees were sorted into groups, which were then assigned a certified Healer to watch over them.

The woman shrugged and replied, "oh, I don't know, she went off somewhere and told me to work on him in the meanwhile." Harry groaned. _Maybe it's time for that flushing I was thinking about..._

"Did you perform any spells on him?" _Please say no, please say no..._

She shook her head. "No. I had no idea what to do."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "Right. I'll perform a demonstration, then." He walked closer to the patient and observed how the front of the man's neck, marked by the Adam's apple, was reversed as well.

"How long have you been in this condition, sir?" He asked politely.

"Oh, I don't know!," the man bellowed energetically, "about three days I think! I was doing perfectly fine, of course, don't you worry! Except walking! And turning my arms! I dropped my vase!" He waved his arms about as he talked.

Harry wondered if the man was overdosed with Cheering Charms as well. "Sir, in the future, it would be advisable to visit the hospital immediately instead of after three days. Tell me, please, how did you become like this?"

"Oh, I was playing Quidditch!"

Harry waited for a moment, and when it seemed that no complete explanation would be forthcoming, prodded, "...And?"

"And my Bertha – that's my broom's name, you see, quite temperamental! – broke!"

Harry wished that he would get to the point already, and inhaled a deep, steadying breath. He could guess, with (as Smethwyck would put it) a 1% margin of error just why the boisterous man had been cursed in the first place. "...And?"

"I rolled into a mass of flowers and started scolding dear Bertha, oh that playful girl!"

Another minute of silence, before Harry said "...And?"

"And this woman came out of the house and started yelling at me! Waved her wand in a fury, yes she did, and now I'm like this!"

"Do you remember the words she said?"

"Yes! Quite horrible! 'Scum', 'filth', 'bloody fu –' "

"Any spells?" Harry interrupted hurriedly.

"Something like '_vicious genitalia'_."

With the information that he had been given, and ignoring the badly-mangled recitation of the spell, Harry easily pieced together what had happened. The man was riding his broom, it broke from his weight, he crashed into someone's yard, and got hexed for it. So it hadn't been a curse. Good, this made the issue much simpler to solve. He raised his voice.

"First, identify the spell used. In this case, judging by the half-said spell, it's most likely a botched version of the Knee-Reversal hex, for which the incantation is _vicissi genua_. Not 'viscous genitalia', which I doubt the original caster chanted, as a completely different effect would've occurred," Harry said the last part wryly.

"The next step is to administer a Painless Potion; this is a standard precaution." He opened the moleskin pouch around his neck that had been given to him by Hagrid in his Seventh Year in thanks for proving his innocence to the Ministry. "_Accio, Painless Potion_," he said, and a solid blue liquid flew into his hand. He quickly tilted three drops into the man's mouth and watched as his eyes glazed over and he slumped downwards, held up only Harry's hands. "This will cause the patient to fall into an unconscious, pain-free state."

"Step three, undo the spell. Since it is a hex, it is counterable by a Hex-Breaker. However, seeing as I do not want to go through a overly complicated set of steps, nor stand on my head, I will use the direct counter-spell. Also, please do note that the Hex-Breaker is most effective on properly cast hexes, while counter-spells will work in either case." He waved and twirled his wand, and the patient's head immediately switched around to its proper position.

The trainee's eyes were wide. "It's that easy?" she asked excitedly, before blushing and adding, "Um, not that I think being an official Healer is easy or anything – "

"If it was a properly cast hex, it would be," Harry corrected her. "This is why Healing training, not just traditional schooling, is required. The next step, and this is where we get into actual Healing, is casting a series of simple diagnostic spells to check for further damage." He gently laid the man down, and began waving his wand over him, watching as the small orb light appearing for each spell turned green or red.

"Skin misplacement and slight skeletal disarrangement," he announced aloud. He turned towards the trainee, "tell me, what level Healing does he require?"

The trainee thought for a moment before proudly announcing, "He requires Level One, mild Healing – for the skin – and Level Two, minor Healing – for the bones."

"Correct." Harry took two steps away from the patient and motioned towards the trainee. "Give it a try."

The trainee bit her lip and stalked towards the patient with determination. "Yes, sir!"

Harry watched her actions. Her wand movements were precise and her intonations accurate. She followed the classic order of Healing – inside to out – well, and finished the job swiftly. She would be a good Healer in the future, and he supposed that her teacher had seen that as well which was why she had been left alone in the room.

After finishing, she stepped back from the patient and looked towards him for approval. "Good job," he praised her.

She beamed happily at him. "No, sir, it was all you! You're a much better teacher than the one I have right now!"

Harry paused, surprised. Being a teacher had been one of his considered jobs and it was heart-warming to have someone say it to him. He smiled. "Thank you."

* * *

_(…)_

_It was not too long after the war had first become official._

_He was in disguise at the Three Broomsticks, taking a short break from the reality of war and simply watching the world around him. Harry sat alone at a table in the middle of conversation secluded from the crowd around him._

_He didn't quite know why he was here of all places. Was he trying to act his actual age of eighteen? Or be somewhere where for once, no one recognized him? It had been three years since Albus had named him his official Apprentice, and the world still wondered why. Harry knew why, after Albus had confessed to him his past: he was afraid to face Gellert Grindelwald, his childhood friend. Afraid of knowing the truth about his sister, afraid of having to raise his wand against his former love. Albus Dumbledore, Light Lord, discoverer of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, close friend of Nicholas Flamel, inventor of the Philosopher's Stone __– and a coward just like the best of them. And now, the Light looked towards a teenage boy to lead them to victory..._

_A cheery voice interrupted him._

_"Hey, can I sit here? Everywhere else is full." In front of him was a cheerily smiling teenager about his age. He had a sharp, angled face with slanted, mercury eyes, reminiscent of a fox's. He had curly, pale blond hair which, unlike Harry's, didn't stick up all over the place and was also longer. His hair was also longer, hanging down below his shoulders in the front, and tied back with a silk ribbon in the front._

_The boy introduced himself as 'Thanian Black', and Harry did likewise __– 'George Evans'._

_Harry watched him, wondering if he should interfere, as Thanian ordered and drowned himself in Firewhiskey after Firewhiskey. It wasn't long until the other became thoroughly drink._

_Thanian, under the hazy influence of alcohol, began speaking about his childhood. How his pureblood parents, a Black and aMalfoy, had been forced into an arranged marriage with each other. How they hated each other and hated him, ignored him all his life, and how he'd changed his given name as soon as he could because they had named him after the star Mirak of all things._

_Harry made a note to research the meaning of Mirak. It sounded like a nice name..._

_Thanian offered him a cup of Firewhiskey, and waited._

_And so Harry, feeling guilty about hearing of a stranger's life and not talking about any of his, took a sip, and then tested Thanian first by revealing his status as a Muggleborn. When the other showed no visible negative reaction, he continued recounting how his birth parents had died when he was an infant and how he'd been given to his only remaining family, the aunt on his mother's side and her family. How he'd been neglected, underfed, forced to live in a cupboard (he was quite a bit drunk at this point; he'd always been a lightweight) and how they'd tried to starve the 'freakishness' out of him._

_"Did you ever forgive them?" the other boy questioned innocently._

_Harry thought about their last meeting, before they parted for their personal safety, how Dudley had shaken his hand, how Vernon had seemed more subdued, and how Petunia had a tint of regret in her eyes._

_"...Yeah," Harry replied. "Yeah, I did."_

_They spent the rest of the night discussing random topics, that Harry could never quite recall, only that his mind grew more and more hazy as time went on._

_Finally, his companion, sensing that Harry probably did not engage in drinking often, offered with a smile of amusement to Apparate him back home._

_Harry clumsily shook his head in the negative and muttered, "Portkey"._

_Thanian smiled understandingly. "See you around then, Harry."_

_The next day, Harry woke up on the floor and underwent heavy embarrassment. It was the first time he had confessed so much to anyone. He'd never even told Hermione and Ron about how he had used to live in a cupboard. And he'd said all of it to a random stranger, at that. Harry swore to himself never to get drunk, ever again._

_After steadying his emotions, he remembered his mental note to himself and went into the Hogwarts library to look up star names and their meanings. It didn't take too long for him to find the entry. _Mirak: Loins._ Harry let out a chuckle – if his parents had named him that he'd change it as soon as possible, too._

_Three days after, Harry received the news. The Dursleys had been found, murdered after a session of heavy torture._

_And two weeks afterwards, he met Thanian once again __– on opposite sides of the battlefield._

_Apparently Grindelwald had gotten himself an apprentice as well._

* * *

"_The war you fought in; was there a betrayal during it that affected your life heavily?_"

It wasn't a betrayal. Not really. After all, they had just met, and what had Harry expected, trusting so easily? Trust was not meant to be given away so easily. Yes...trust...was meant to be betrayed, again and again.


End file.
